


take these walls, these wars

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Series: i wish we had more time (ws!steve trevor) [6]
Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Books, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Separations, Winter Soldier AU, some references to comics characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 19:57:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11607858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: Diana’s still not back the day after that, either. It’s not an uncommon experience, for her to be away longer than expected (especially on Justice League stuff), but the apartment still feels too big and quiet, without her around (and even with Claire hanging around), the bed too cold and empty.Claire very gently bullies him into making her coffee Cuban-style, tutoring him through the whole process and proclaiming the result to be acceptable, coming from a white guy."Thanks," he says, dry as a desert.or: Steve deals with Diana being off on League business by worming his way into a book club.





	take these walls, these wars

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Jeanann Verlee's "[Your Mouth is a Church, I Forgot How to Pray](https://nailedmagazine.com/poetry/poetry-suite-jeanann-verlee/)".
> 
> book club idea is from [philthestone](http://phil-the-stone.tumblr.com/), borrowed with permission. it sort of went another direction sorry.

He stumbles on Kamala reading one of her comics in the break room, one day.

She’s a good kid. Steve’s almost a little disappointed she’s in Islamic Arts, and not the Greco-Roman department, she has an eye for details that other people miss.

She also regularly brings in comics, and usually whenever Steve sees her, she’s got a pack of fellow interns clustered around her, all of them whispering to each other about plot twists and art styles and why this storyline works and why that characterization is stupid. He lets them be, and gets himself some coffee.

Not today. For some reason Kamala’s alone today, cheek resting on the palm of her hand as she reads. He drifts closer, catching sight of a woman in a bright costume, red and blue standing out in an already bright landscape.

“Where’d everybody else go?” he says.

Kamala startles, eyes wide as she snaps her head up from her comic to look at him.

“Stop sneaking up on people, you ninja!” she says, voice pitching slightly higher than usual.

Oh. Right. That.

“Old habit, sorry,” Steve says, and it’s true, sort of. That he’s pretty much hardwired into moving that way, silent as a thief in the night, because of his murky past—that, she doesn’t need to know about. “Don’t you usually have—friends, with you?”

“They’re all out on errands right now,” says Kamala, “and Katie’s attending a Bar Mitzvah. But it’s _Wednesday_ , so.”

“And?” says Steve. Okay, Wednesday’s significant somehow, but how, he’s not sure.

“And new comics come in on Wednesday,” says Kamala, brows creasing together. “I can talk about the issue with everyone else later. Or tomorrow.”

“How about talking about it with me now?” says Steve, pulling up a chair. “Diana’s in Metropolis for an interview with the Daily Planet.” Diana is actually in Florida fighting a swarm of half-alligator men alongside the rest of the League, but he figures Kamala wouldn’t believe him. Stuff of science fiction, that kind of thing. “And I’m on my break anyway, so.”

“How much do you know about comics?” says Kamala. “Because it’s going to be a long break.”

“Not that much,” says Steve.

“It’s going to be a long break,” says Kamala, but she’s grinning up at him as if she’s been waiting for someone to ask the question. It’s like Diana, he thinks, only instead of pottery and statues, it’s comics. “Okay, so—Captain Marvel.”

\--

When Diana comes back, she lands on the fire escape, her boots making a metallic sound as they hit the railing. She can move much more quietly than that, Steve’s seen her do it—this is purely just to let him know she’s back.

He looks up, says, “Hey. How was Florida?”

“ _Hot_ ,” says Diana, with a tone of voice usually reserved for Joe from Corporate. “But the alligator men have been restored to normal, at least.”

“You okay?” Steve asks, setting the comic book aside and getting to his feet to get the medical kit. There are three little cuts just below her eye, like someone tried to claw it out.

His stomach churns at the thought.

Diana sighs, sets her sword and shield gently down by the coffee table. Then she collapses onto the couch and says, “I’m exhausted, that’s all. What few injuries I have now will be healed come the morning, with some rest.”

“Might get infected,” says Steve, lugging out the kit and taking out some cotton and disinfectant. “I mean. I don’t know. Could that happen?”

Diana inclines her head. “No,” she says, simply.

Steve sighs, and puts the disinfectant and cotton ball away. “So how can I help?” he asks.

“Tell me what you were reading,” says Diana.

“Something Kamala lent me for a few days,” says Steve, reaching over for his comic book to show her. _Captain Marvel_ is emblazoned in front, in stylized golden letters, and above it is a blonde, blue-eyed woman in a battle-ready stance. “It’s about this woman who gains superpowers in an incident with alien lifeforms while on a mission to outer space.”

It sounds kind of ridiculous, when he says it out loud. Then he remembers he’s saying it to an immortal Amazon demigoddess. In comparison to his real life, Kamala’s comic book seems downright tame.

He shifts a little in his seat, to allow Diana better access to his shoulder. She leans on him, her diadem digging into his skin, and he goes back to the first page to catch her up.

She falls asleep, at some point. He knows because her eyes close, and not long after that her breathing slows. He closes the book, sets it aside, and moves silently, gently laying her down to rest her head against one of the couch cushions. Then he fetches a blanket and drapes it over her sleeping body.

Then he slumps into an armchair and closes his eyes.

\--

That, perhaps, is how it starts.

Steve comes into the break room the next day, with Kamala’s comic book tucked underneath his arm, and blinks at the small assembly of interns now crowded around Kamala and her new issue of—well, something new.

“Yeah, but look, just hear me out,” Katie’s saying, “what if, _what if_ they did something more with the Cosmic Cube turned Cosmic Girl? I mean—”

“This is _Marvel_ we’re talking about,” James is saying, his wild mass of hair tied back into a messy ponytail, “they won’t do much with the storyline, and whatever comes out is going to be disappointing as fuck.”

“Optimistic of you,” says Bodhi. “Hey, when’s the next _Scarlet Witch_ coming out again?”

“Next week,” says Kamala, “and they’re wrapping up this arc with the Emerald Warlock.”

“I hope she punts his ass off a cliff,” says Katie.

“Of course she will, it’s her title,” says Kamala. “Oh, hey, Bodhi, can you lend me that book of yours, what was the name—”

“ _The People that Time Forgot,_ ” says Bodhi.

“I know that book,” says Steve, fetching a mug and sliding it into the little slot where, ideally, coffee will be deposited into it. “Edgar Rice Burroughs, right? I’ve got a copy back at home.”

All four interns straighten like someone sent a jolt through their systems. James says, “What in the—”

“I finished your book, by the way,” says Steve, turning to the kids to put Kamala’s comic book down on the table. Then he turns back to the coffeemaker, which isn’t making coffee, and smacks it on the side with his free hand to get it to work.

“Oh,” says Kamala. Then she says, “So what did you think?”

“I think,” says Steve, “that I have no idea who these Guardians of the Galaxy are, but I’d like to know. Just to figure out what this Star-Lord guy’s deal is.” He pauses, then adds, “Also, it was pretty good. New comics every Wednesday, you said?”

“Yeah,” says Kamala, “but new _different_ comics. Captain Marvel’s a monthly comic, and the next issue is—next month, I think?” She picks her book up, and says, “Plus it’s way ahead of this trade paperback now, so.”

“Wait, didn’t they relaunch the title?” says Katie. “With a new number one and everything?”

“Argh, don’t _remind me_ ,” Kamala groans, dropping her head into her hands.

“They did that last year already, right?” says Bodhi. “Did they do it _again_?”

“Okay, I’m lost,” says Steve.

“Welcome to comics, even Kamala’s lost sometimes,” says James, perching on the table. “And she’s been a Marvel fan for _years_ , since, like, even before the movies started coming out.” He cocks his head. “Sure you want in on this?”

“I’m sure,” says Steve. “In fact—I’ll lend you my copy of _Out of Time’s Abyss_ , if you lend me another Captain Marvel book.”

“Deal,” says Kamala, her head snapping up to meet his gaze.

\--

Steve doesn’t generally run into the interns outside of the Louvre. Paris is a pretty big place, and they don’t run in the same circles—hell, it’s not like Steve _has_ any social circles to run in, considering that most of his social circle’s been dead for decades.

But there’s a really nice secondhand bookstore down Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, and they have a little café that sells gluten-free pastries with shakes that actually _taste_ good, and it’s only ten minutes away from the Louvre.

So Steve heads there, sometimes, when he can catch some time off work, when the crowds get to be too much and he needs a moment to himself. Sometimes Diana comes with, and the two of them get into small, hushed arguments in the aisles over whose retelling of mythology is better, Rick Riordan or Edith Hamilton, and over which adaptation of this novel is better—the TV series or the movie.

But right now Diana’s in Italy at an auction, officially, and there’s not much for Steve to do at the Louvre besides dodge Joe from Corporate and receive the occasional package from one of Diana’s archaeologist friends. So instead of hanging around the Louvre and going slowly crazy from the crowds, he elects to head to the bookstore.

It’s a quiet bookstore, with a small section near the front for its café. Three out of four walls are crammed with books, and there’s a crate full of sci-fi that Steve makes a beeline for almost immediately, rummaging through the books until he finds _Sky Pirates of Callisto_.

It’s as he’s drifting towards the mystery section, _Sky Pirates_ in hand, that he spots James checking out the nonfiction section. Or, well, he actually spots James’ wild mass of hair first.

“Hey, James,” he says.

James jumps a little with a curse, and turns to look at him. “Mr. Trevor?” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“Picking up books,” says Steve, holding up _Sky Pirates_ , “and it’s Steve. You?”

“Same,” says James, relaxing a little before he turns back to the nonfiction, sliding out a book with the title _The Man Who Killed Kennedy: The Case Against LBJ_. Steve looks away for a second, eyes scanning the shelves for some mention of—of some shadowy assassin, a ghost story spanning a hundred years.

Nothing.

“So, alternative theories, huh?” he says.

“God, you and Katie,” mutters James. “It’s—look, it’s a hobby of mine, looking at alternative theories, seeing if they can serve as sufficient explanations for holes in the accepted theories. Like this here.” He taps the spine of _The Man Who Killed Kennedy_ , and says, “There’s also theories that Lee Harvey Oswald wasn’t _alone_ , that he had _help_ , or that the mob was at fault, or the CIA, or—well, it’s _fascinating_.”

Steve’s not really sure it’s all that fascinating. But then again, he’s pretty sure he can definitively answer this conspiracy theory, and all the others that have cropped up around so many mysterious assassinations, with three words: _I did it._

...probably, anyway.

He doesn’t really know, does he. Not for _certain_. His memory is a patchwork of blood and smoke and death, and at some point the missions blur together, the faces of his victims fading away.

Diana’s told him, many times over, that it’s not _his_ fault, not entirely. That for all intents and purposes he wasn’t much more than a weapon, then, and you can’t exactly blame the weapon for doing what it was made to do.

Still. It doesn’t change the fact that for a century, that had been all he’d done. And—god, you’d think the least he could do is remember their faces, right? Their names?

“Uh, Mr. Tre—Steve?”

Steve blinks, snapping out of his thoughts. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “What?”

“Did you hear anything I said?” says James.

“No, sorry,” says Steve. “Rough day.”

“It’s not even 2 in the afternoon,” says James.

“I don’t like crowds,” says Steve.

“Why come work at the Louvre if you don’t like crowds?” says James, nose scrunching up. “There’s a lot of museums in Paris besides the Louvre, and they don’t get nearly as much traffic.”

“They don’t pay half as well,” says Steve, with a little huff and a shake of his head, and James snorts out a laugh. “Hey, Jimmy—”

“James.”

“James, then.” Steve looks to the shelves, eyes alighting on a book with _Flying Warbirds_ on the spine. “Any alternative theories about World War I?” he asks.

“A World War I buff, huh?” says James. “Not as many, I’m more of a post-World War II guy myself, but I did stumble on some discussion over Wonder Woman and just how long she’s been here one time.”

Steve does not go still, instead idly turning his book over in his hands. He hadn’t flown a plane during World War II, or any other period afterwards. There was the risk he’d remember, then, so much of what he’d done in World War I that wasn’t spying on someone was flying.

He half-remembers the thrill of it, dizzying and exhilarating. The memory’s faded, with time and electricity, buried under everything else, but it’s still there.

“How long has she been here?” he asks.

“Some say since _World War I_ ,” says James, with a shake of his head. “Honestly, that sounds kind of ridiculous. I think—something like Captain America, maybe. Frozen in ice for a hundred years before Batman thawed her out.”

Steve strangles the laugh in his throat, turns it into a cough, and says, “Sorry, go on.”

James eyes him suspiciously, but goes on: “It would explain why anecdotes of her appear in World War I only, and not the succeeding wars afterwards.”

“And you don’t think she just—needed a break from all this?” says Steve. “World War I was pretty hellish.”

“Yeah, but get this,” says James, who’s really gotten going now, he’s practically bouncing on his feet, “according to some people, she once posed for a photograph in the same armor she wears now, and she looks _exactly the same_.”

“So where’s this photograph now?” Steve asks, congratulating himself on keeping his face straight.

“Nobody knows!” says James. “They said Lex Luthor had it for a bit—”

Luthor.

Luthor had the photograph.

Luthor had _known_ who he was. Had to. Luthor’s smart, smart enough to suss out the League’s identities and arrogant enough to think he could play Batman and Superman like a violin.

Luthor had known and he’d _used_ him, anyway. Or perhaps he used him because of that.

Because of Diana.

Because he wanted to _control_ Diana, and Steve was the best way to do it.

He tastes bile at the back of his throat, swallows it back. He says, “Isn’t he a straight-up supervillain now? Wouldn’t that have been seized along with the rest of his assets?”

“You’d think so, right?” says James, with a huff. “But he’s smart. He’s probably got it squirreled away somewhere for a rainy day.”

Steve doesn’t tell him that he knows where it is—in a safe in Diana’s apartment, with a copy in Claire’s photo albums. Luthor might have a back-up somewhere, it’s possible, but it’s not going to do him any good. He’s too _addicted_ to the feeling of having the world’s biggest secrets in his head.

He says, “Yeah, I guess it’s likely.”

\--

Claire shows up at the apartment, sometimes. “House-sitting,” she says, when he asks her.

“I’m right here,” he says.

“It isn’t just the house,” says Claire. “Coffee?”

“You know where it is,” he says.

“Thanks,” says Claire, rushing off to make herself some coffee.

Steve goes back to sorting through Diana’s e-mail, and wonders briefly if he can punt Charles LaRue through a window. Every e-mail he reads from this guy just oozes of sleaze, and if he wasn’t the co-owner of Myndi Mayer’s company he would delete every e-mail out of spite. As it stands, he has to slog through every thinly-veiled invitation to dinner and empty compliment for a speck of an opportunity.

Then he sends them to the trash folder and reads the rest, writing down appointments and cancellations and wondering how Diana’s doing right now.

Claire sits down next to him and says, “Really taking this secretary thing seriously, huh?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, rubbing at his eyes.

“Take a break,” says Claire, her voice singsong.

“I’ve got to rearrange her schedule,” he says. “Goldstein cancelled the lunch appointment last-minute and Dr. Alton’s calling about an artifact he found in a dig in Turkey, she’ll want to hear about that as soon as she gets back.”

“Where is she, anyway?” says Claire.

“Officially, an auction in Italy,” says Steve. “Unofficially? Justice League stuff in Italy.” The kind of stuff that Steve can’t help her out with, seeing as generally, threats that need the League to deal with them are threats where Steve would probably hinder more than help, if he went in to back her up.

Logically, he knows that the rest of the League can do that well enough. Batman is easily the one member Steve could conceivably take in a fight, and Batman is also the most overprepared and paranoid person Steve has ever heard about. To say nothing of the rest of them.

And yet here he is in Diana’s apartment, trying not to worry too much about her. She’s taken down a god before, and worse than that. She can handle this.

He just—

He misses her.

Claire bumps his shoulder. “Get some sleep,” she says.

“I’ve slept enough,” he argues.

“Get some reading done, then,” she says. “Have you ever read _Watchmen_ , by any chance?”

“Yeah, and it was depressing,” says Steve. “Anything that doesn’t end in New York getting murdered via manmade alien squid?”

“Kurt Vonnegut’s _Slaughterhouse-Five_ ,” says Claire. “Hey, when do you think Diana’s getting back?”

“Two days from now,” says Steve. _If everything goes right,_ he doesn’t add, but Claire glances at him with a faint crease in her brow, runs her teeth over her lower lip, and he knows she’s thinking it as well. Diana can take care of herself, they both know that—he’s seen her go up against monsters and emerge with barely a scratch.

But still. But _still._

\--

She’s not back the next day.

He spends most of it having and rescheduling meetings and resisting the urge to strangle Joe from Corporate and also Joe’s creepy friend Kevin, who asks where Diana’s gone and looks vaguely disappointed that she’s left Steve in charge of her affairs, in the meantime.

By the time the last meeting’s done, it’s nearing nightfall, and Steve drags himself back to Diana’s office. He wonders, briefly, if it’s too late to nap on the desk, if he can check out early and curl up on the couch and try to sleep.

He opens the door and blinks.

“Um,” he says, as the woman sitting in the leather chair in front of the desk grabs the cane resting against her leg and pulls herself up to a standing position. “Hello? If you’re looking for Diana Prince, she’s in Italy at the moment.”

“Oh,” says the woman, tucking strands of stray blonde hair behind her ear with her free hand. “That sucks. I have an artifact she might’ve wanted to look at, I was hoping to catch her—who’re you?”

“I’m her secretary,” says Steve, holding out his hand. “Steve Trevor. Did one of the interns refer you here while I was out? Because if so I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.” Somewhere, he’s pretty sure he can hear a light voice, with a British accent, laughing at him. “Uh, she didn’t say she had an appointment with you?”

“Nah, she didn’t,” says the woman, taking his hand and giving it a shake. Her grip is firm and assured. “Dr. Barbara Minerva. I tend to drop by when I’m in town and I’ve found something that might interest her.” She sighs, her hand dropping away as she looks around, and leans on her cane. “But if she’s in Italy—”

“She’ll come back soon,” Steve says. “Tomorrow, most likely. Until then, you can tell me about it and I’ll let her know.” Once the Justice League’s done doing—whatever it is they’re doing in Italy, right now, he doesn’t know what. So far the news is mum on what’s happening there that needs the League’s help so badly, outside of some strange epidemic of narcolepsy.

“I don’t know,” Dr. Minerva says, limping over to the couch, where she’s evidently dumped her bag, the flap open to expose spines of books and binders. “The last secretary she had was—well. He was a dick.”

“Dr. Minerva,” says Steve, as Dr. Minerva sits down, “it’s my job to take Diana’s messages while she’s away. If you leave it with me, I will get it to her as soon as possible.”

She sighs, and says, “It’s not her getting it that I’m worried about—Barnes got it to her. He just also misunderstood the message, and it didn’t help that his own biases interfered.”

Steve shrugs, and says, “I think you’ll find I’m pretty good at understanding a lot of things.” It had been an integral part of his job, as a spy.

She says, “What do you know about the Amazons?”

_Diana’s one and she’s from an island full of them, I went there once but I don’t remember most of it because electric shocks and brainwashing,_ Steve does not answer. Instead he says, carefully neutral, “They’re an all-female warrior tribe from Greek mythology.”

“They’re real,” says Dr. Minerva, before she braces herself, jaw clenching and shoulders tensing, as if preparing to have to defend her theories from laughter and jeers.

Steve blinks at her. “Okay,” he says. “Go on.”

Dr. Minerva’s shoulders relax, her jaw unclenching. Her fingers drum along the head of her cane. “I was part of a recent dig in Pokrovka,” she says, “when we excavated a tomb that we initially believed belonged to a warrior king buried with full honors after dying in battle.” She smiles, and says, “We were right on most of it—except the tomb belonged to a warrior _queen_. More than that, she was not the only woman buried there.”

And so she tells him about—well, not _all_ of it. Steve’s pretty sure she’s holding back a lot of details, for the simple fact that he probably wouldn’t understand it—which is true, since he asks her more than once to clarify something, a leap in logic or a term that doesn’t make sense to him at first.

But the gist of it is this: some several thousand years ago, maybe even before somebody had the bright idea of recording history, the Amazons had a battle so fierce that it cost them the life of their queen, as well as many other Amazons. Queen Lysippe, the twelfth queen of the Amazons, had died on the battlefield, and she and the other fallen Amazons were buried with full honors by their grieving companions.

Among those companions was the next Queen, Hippolyta, who had left her mark on Lysippe’s grave.

“So there’s twelve more to find?” says Steve.

“At _least_ ,” says Dr. Minerva, eyes bright. “I was hoping to bring this to Diana’s attention, but I couldn’t reach her, so I figured—well, I’d stop by. And instead…” She waves a hand at Steve. “Where’d she pick you up, anyway?”

_I broke into her apartment while she was away because I was on the run from Lex Luthor’s evil company._ “Craigslist,” says Steve. “I was really desperate for a job.”

“Must be if you were on _Craigslist_ ,” says Dr. Minerva, wincing in sympathy. “When’s she coming back?”

“Tomorrow,” says Steve. “If the acquisition goes well and she’s not held up by any problems, anyway, she mentioned there might be some trouble with legalities that’d extend her stay.” It’s pure bullshit, spun to look like gold, and Dr. Minerva’s sympathetic sigh means she’s bought it. “Just leave your work number here and I’ll tell her to call you back for more details, once she comes back. How does that sound?”

“It sounds good to me,” says Dr. Minerva, picking up her bag. Unfortunately, she picks it up by the wrong end, and her books and papers spill out onto the couch and the floor. “Oh, _shit_ —”

“Here,” says Steve, immediately getting on his knees to help her, collecting her papers into something vaguely more orderly, “let me help—”

“Shit, _shit_ ,” Dr. Minerva swears, kneeling down with more effort than he did, holding onto her cane as she takes her papers from him. “Have to organize my shit better, one of these days, and get a new bag.”

“Probably,” says Steve, picking her books up. Most of them are what he’d expect, out of someone whose expertise lies in archaeology, but there’s one that catches his eye.

“ _Percy Jackson and the Olympians_?” he says, turning a dog-eared copy of _The Lightning Thief_ over in his hands.

Dr. Minerva snatches it back from him and says, “It’s—very entertaining, if you ignore some of the liberties taken with the myths, and it’s certainly much more accurate than that movie with the Titans—”

“I’ve got it at home,” says Steve. “And _Heroes of Olympus_.”

“Oh, that,” says Dr. Minerva, relaxing once more. “Honestly I like the first series better. I mean, I guess _Heroes_ is good for if you want to pass a few hours, but it’s much weaker than its predecessor.”

“Yeah, the first book started off kinda oddly,” says Steve, “but I’d argue the writing gets a lot better in the second book, and I really liked how the Romans’ culture was contrasted against Camp Half-Blood’s Greek origins, and Percy’s as an extension—uh, what’s with the face?”

“I have got to hit up Craigslist more often,” says Dr. Minerva, shaking her head. “She got _you_ as an assistant off it? Christ. Lucky woman.” She pauses a moment, then says, “Do you think, if I asked, she’d lend you out to me?”

“Nope,” says Steve, reflexively. He’s—been there before, been lent out to someone, traded away like chattel, and the thought of it happening _again_ makes his stomach twist into knots. _Diana wouldn’t do that,_ he tells himself, _not her._

The knot in his stomach loosens, just a little.

Dr. Minerva sighs, oblivious. “Well, damn,” she says. “That’s a shame. You’re a pretty good secretary, and those are hard to get these days.”

“Maybe ask one of the interns here,” says Steve. “I think they’d jump at the chance to be at an actual dig.”

“You know,” says Dr. Minerva, with a little smile, “I think I just might.”

\--

Diana’s still not back the day after that, either. It’s not an uncommon experience, for her to be away longer than expected (especially on Justice League stuff), but the apartment still feels too big and quiet, without her around (and even with Claire hanging around), the bed too cold and empty.

Claire very gently bullies him into making her coffee Cuban-style, tutoring him through the whole process and proclaiming the result to be acceptable, coming from a white guy.

“ _Thanks_ ,” he says, dry as a desert.

“Just accept the compliment,” says Claire, bumping his shoulder. “When do you think she’s coming back?”

“Maybe today,” says Steve, hopeful despite the worry wearing away at his heart, drumming his fingers on the book he’s working through. “This weekend at the latest.”

Claire watches him for a long moment, sipping at her coffee. Then she says, “You miss her.”

Like it’s instinct. Like even when he can’t remember her, some shadow of a memory is still there, some ghost of a kiss. “Yes,” he says, thinking of _almost_. “She’ll come back,” he adds. “She always does.”

“I know she will,” says Claire.

“She’ll save the world,” he says, “and then she’ll come back.”

“Steve,” says Claire, looking up at him from her coffee, sharp eyes seeing right through him, “I’m not the one who needs convincing here.”

Steve breathes out, and looks down at his book. He’s been on the same page for about fifteen minutes now, reading the same sentence over and over. _She’ll come back. She will. She always does._

“I hate this,” says Steve, quiet.

“The worry, right?” says Claire. “The thought that something might happen, and you’ll get a call that starts with _I’m sorry for your loss_?”

Steve glances up and says, “How do you know that?”

“My sister lives in Gotham,” says Claire. “ _Gotham_ , Steve. Sometimes I’m scared she’ll die or worse, because she got unlucky enough to be in the same area as the Joker, or the Riddler, or Poison Ivy, or all those other criminals Batman goes up against.” She sighs, says, “I already lost an old friend there, to one of those assholes—these days I’m not sure where she’s gone.”

“From what you’ve told me about your sister, and Gothamites in general,” says Steve, “I’m pretty sure she can handle herself.”

“Exactly,” says Claire, pointing her spoon at him. “She carries antidotes for every kind of poison and gas possible in her purse. She’s an expert in Krav Maga. She could whoop her ex-boyfriend’s ass and he _boxes_ for a living. I know she can take care of herself, but— _still._ ”

She sighs, runs a hand through her hair.

“I get scared,” says Claire, “‘cause she’s my sister, and I love her. I don’t want to lose her, to death or to the same fate that took my friend.”

Steve lets out a breath, and shuts his book. “Diana’s a demigod,” he says. “I tried to shoot her once and she deflected every bullet. I remember seeing her deflect a mortar shell with her shield. And the Justice League can watch her back just as well as I ever could, maybe better.” He pauses, then runs his teeth over his lower lip. “Definitely better,” he says.

“But you’re still worried,” says Claire.

“Yeah,” he says. “I—I lost her once. Before. Or she lost me, but the point is that even when I didn’t remember her I missed her so much.” There’d been an empty, hollow ache in his chest in those years, and it’s only now that he realizes it’s shaped like her smile, like her eyes, like his watch in her hand. “And now that I remember her—I want as much time with her as I can get.”

“You know,” says Claire, contemplatively, “putting aside the amnesia and the century spent as a brainwashed assassin and the superhero thing, that’s normal for anyone whose significant other works as, say, a cop or a soldier. You love her, so you don’t want to lose her. But there’s the very real risk that you could.”

Steve glances up at her, thinks of three little cuts just below Diana’s eye. “It only takes one person getting lucky,” he says.

Claire looks away, hands curling around her mug. “She’s luckier than most, at least,” she says, with the heavy weight of grief pressing her shoulders down.

Neither of them give voice to the question, there: what happens if she runs out of luck?

\--

He accompanies Claire to her school, the two of them chatting away about _Captain Marvel_ and Edgar Rice Burroughs and World War I fighter planes and new movies Steve hasn’t seen yet, new books Steve’s missed.

“Ever read _The Little Prince_?” says Claire.

“The movie’s on Netflix,” says Steve.

“First read the book,” says Claire. “The book’s always better. Just look at _Game of Thrones_.”

“I’ve been trying not to,” says Steve, wincing a little. He’d landed on an episode once, just _once_ , and—he knows the 21st century’s _incredibly_ relaxed about sex, but. Still. No one really expects to get an eyeful when channel-surfing these days, right?

...who is he kidding, they probably do.

“You poor, sweet summer child,” says Claire. “I’m gonna lend you the books. And _The Little Prince_. Don’t get attached to anyone.”

\--

Diana’s still not back by the time Steve goes on his lunch break, and he retreats into the break room with a book entitled _The Athenian Acropolis_ , once staying in her offices gets to be too much, the worry pressing down on him and threatening to wrap around his throat and suffocate him.

He makes himself a cup of shitty coffee, flips idly through the book until he finds where he left off.

He hears footsteps, first, then someone muttering outside the door, and says, “Hey, Monty,” without looking up when the door opens.

“Someday, lad,” says Monty, walking over to pull up a chair across the table, settling in it with a relieved sigh, “you’ll have to tell me how you do that.”

Steve looks up, then, says, “Do what?”

“That little party trick of yours,” says Monty, waving a hand at him. “Didn’t even lift your head, just _hi_ right out of your gob. _Damn_.”

“How I do it’s classified,” says Steve. In truth he’d just listened for a Scottish accent outside the door—Monty has a habit of grumbling to himself about anything and everything. “Habit, y’know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I ken,” Monty says. “By the way, a little birdie said you were a little mopey today. _Several_ little birdies.”

“You and the intern rumor mill,” sighs Steve, setting his book aside. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Uh-huh,” says Monty. “You miss her.”

Steve looks down at his coffee. Three days now that she’s been in Italy, and whatever’s going on there hasn’t slowed down as of yet. He wishes he could call, or text, or even just catch a glimpse of her on the news, doing what she does best and saving the world, but he can’t risk it, can’t distract her if she’s in the middle of a battle. He doesn’t even know if she’s got reception, wherever she is.

“I do,” he says.

“Poor lad,” says Monty, shaking his head. “The lass’ll come back.”

“I know,” says Steve, more for his own reassurance than Monty’s. “She always does.” _Lie,_ says that treacherous, paranoid little voice in the back of his head. _Truth,_ says another, small and quiet.

“So where’s she gone this time, anyway?”

“Officially, an acquisition in Italy,” says Steve, and he lets the news sink in as he picks his book back up again to pick up where he left off.

“You mean—” Monty starts.

“Yeah,” says Steve.

“ _Shite_ ,” says Monty, emphatic.

“ _Yeah,_ ” says Steve, glancing briefly up before he looks back down, eyes catching on a terracotta statue of the goddess Athena. He wonders briefly if all of Diana’s gods are truly dead, or if there’s one of them still alive, watching out for her.

He thinks of empty air, a coffee cup that vanished into thin air. He thinks, _If any of you are still alive, keep an eye out for Diana, please._

“Well, there’s a right problem, no mistakin’,” says Monty, shaking his head. “Bloody hell. I’m assumin’ you and the lass worked out a good alibi just in case?”

“More legal bullshit than usual surrounding what she’s trying to get,” says Steve.

“That’s not a half-bad one,” Monty says. “What else, what else—oh, yes, I’ve got a little bevvy in my locker, strong enough to strip paint—”

“I can’t get drunk,” says Steve.

“Doesn’t need to be right now,” says Monty. “You can take it home, spend a night getting properly wine hammered—”

“As in,” says Steve, “I literally _can’t_ get drunk.” He takes a sip of his coffee, watching Monty’s jaw go slowly slack in sheer horror as the words sink in. “There’s a lot of technical jargon involved, but the basics of it is that whatever I got that let me survive cryo sped my metabolism up more.”

“You can’t get _drunk_?” says Monty, horrified.

“At all,” Steve says.

“You poor arsehole,” says Monty, shaking his head. “What kinda monstrous bastards would take away a man’s ability to get properly smashed?”

“The kind that needed him alert no matter how many drinks went into his system,” says Steve.

“You poor fuckin’ thing,” says Monty, with a sigh, as he gets to his feet and steps around the table, to pat Steve on the back, as if to comfort him over this humongous loss. “Tell you what. You can have the bez anyway, least you’ll not feel like some munter pounded a spike through your head come the morn.”

“Thanks,” says Steve, and he’s a little surprised to find that he means it.

“What were you readin’ anyway?” says Monty, leaning over. “Ooh, the _Acropolis_. Been there once before, lovely place, though I broke my arm.”

“How do you _break your arm_ at a historical site?” says Steve.

“You climb the fences while stoned out of your wits and trip over some bits of marble,” says Monty, wistful, staring off into space as if breaking his arm had been the highlight of his trip. “College was a brilliant time.”

\--

There’s a small circle of interns at the bookstore, when Steve gets there. They’ve all clustered around a table in the café, quietly whispering to each other, and Steve decides that whatever it is that’s gotten five of them together away from the break room, including Amélie from Decorative Arts, it’s probably none of his business.

Then he overhears a snatch of conversation as he passes by them, James saying something about _Wonder Woman_ , and Steve steps a little bit closer.

He buys a muffin, listening in to James talking about how Wonder Woman could be, maybe, the closest thing their world has to a Captain America figure, someone who disappeared from the world once peace came in the early 20th century, and who reappeared decades later in the battle of Gotham, against that great big _thing_ Lex Luthor had unleashed on the world.

“I don’t know, _cherie,_ ” says Amélie, propping her chin up on a perfectly-manicured hand. “I think you’re reaching. Again.”

“I know you’re reaching again,” says Katie, with a huff.

“There you go again, Katie,” huffs James, “being as close-minded as ever.”

“I’m not being _close-minded_ , I’m just being sensible—”

“Can you even prove it?” says Bodhi, skeptical. “Because—okay, say this photograph exists, right? Why hasn’t it shown up with all the rest of the stuff that was seized from him?”

“You’re assuming that the authorities are willing to just put this kind of information out there where just anyone can get at it,” says James. “It hasn’t shown up ‘cause they want leverage!”

“Over _Wonder Woman_?” says Amélie. “ _Mon Dieu_ , James—how did you say it? Find your chill.”

“That,” says Kamala, slowly, “makes a terrifying amount of sense, actually. I’ve read that comic before.”

Steve hooks a foot around a nearby chair and pulls it up, making sure to make some noise to call attention. “Hey,” he says, and notes that Bodhi _still_ jumps. “I, uh, couldn’t help overhearing? Sorry. What about Wonder Woman?”

“Oh, Mr. Trevor!” says James. “We talked about this, remember?”

“Yeah, the photo and shit,” says Steve. “How do you even know for sure if there’s a photo, though, if it’s not anywhere on the Internet? Also, it’s Steve.”

“That’s what we keep _asking_ ,” says Bodhi, with a huff.

Amélie says, “None of you were _kidding_ about the eyes—”

“Look,” starts James, “I got that info off a former LexCorp employee’s tell-all article—”

“The one in _The Daily Mail_?” says Bodhi, wearily. “Don’t trust _The Daily Mail_ , James. It’s just—It’s just shit, that’s what it is. They don’t even fact-check there.”

“You really have to stop reaching so hard,” says Katie. “And hi, Mr. Trevor, this is—”

“Amélie from Decorative Arts, now: were you eavesdropping?” says Amélie. “And don’t turn those baby blues on me, _cherie_ , _ma petite amie_ plays the innocent lamb all the time. I’m inoculated.”

“Not _that_ much,” says Steve. “To be honest, I really just wanted a muffin. And I keep saying it’s just _Steve_.”

“Yeah, the muffins here are amazing,” says Kamala. “Hey, did you like the Captain Marvel book I lent you?”

“I did, yeah, a lot more than the last one,” says Steve. “Guys. Wonder Woman?”

An embarrassed silence falls over the group, during which James ducks his head and mumbles something about maybe possibly going home to verify if this employee did work at LexCorp, and Bodhi conceals his shaking hands in his sleeves.

Katie says, “She’s _really interesting_. She just—showed up out of nowhere one day.”

“Not exactly,” James starts.

“ _For us,_ ” Katie stresses. “Maybe she _was_ around in World War I, fine. Or maybe, I don’t know, it’s someone she’s related to.”

_No, definitely the same person,_ Steve does not say. Instead he says, “Do we know for sure?”

“Well,” Katie starts.

“There’s actually some stories about that,” Bodhi volunteers, a little hesitant. “Uh—some soldiers talked about a woman who saved a whole village by herself, near the end of the war, but since the village and any possible other eyewitnesses got wiped out by a gas attack there’s really no substantiating those claims.”

Steve wonders if he counts, if he only sort of remembers some of the details, or if he’s automatically disqualified on that account.

“Where’d you pick that up?” says Amélie, twirling a lock of neon-purple hair around her finger.

“Book on World War I soldiers and their stories,” says Bodhi. “I have a copy, I could lend it out.”

“Can you lend it to me?” says Steve. “I’m—interested in World War I.” It’s not a lie, entirely, but he doesn’t tell them about the trenches in his scattershot memory, the sound of bombs and gunfire filling his nightmares, and a woman in armor striding through No Man’s Land, tall and proud.

“ _Fascinant_ ,” says Amélie. “I’m fairly interested as well, there was a great deal of fallout from World War I that led to World War II.” She leans forward, brown eyes almost twinkling with curiosity, and says, “So which part are you interested in?”

And he’d called it _the war to end all wars_. Should’ve known better. “Aviation,” he says. “But I like hearing about the stories that sprang up too.”

“There’s a lot of them,” says Bodhi. “I’m—um, I’m still halfway through it—”

“You’ve been halfway through it for three months,” says Katie, bumping his shoulder.

“I’ve been very busy,” Bodhi huffs. “You know how the boss is. Right, Kamala?”

“No, it’s just you,” says Kamala. “I keep up on my comics and books just fine.”

“You are some kind of superhuman,” says Amélie. “I can barely keep up with _one_ comic with my workload.” She sighs, theatrically, and says, “ _Madame_ Savatier works me like a dog. A _dog_.”

“You’re an intern, that’s part of the job,” says James, with no sympathy. “Aviation, huh? I have a friend who’s a pilot and an armchair historian, I can borrow some books off him.”

“ _I need rest,_ ” says Amélie, shaking a fist in James’s direction. “Oh, and Steve, _cherie_ , I have some World War I books I’m sure you would love.”

“Hey, he’s in _my_ department,” says Katie, “and also, my mom’s got a notebook of family recipes, you’ll love the latkes my grandma used to make, my rabbi always said—”

And just like that, the interns have fully accepted him into their strange little book club. At least that’s the nearest description Steve can find to whatever it is that doesn’t stray too close to _gossip mill_ or _breeding ground for conspiracy theories_ , though that last one’s more on James than any of the rest of them.

He buys Bodhi a muffin, in thanks for his book.

He tries not to wonder where Diana is.

\--

He and Claire are going over her readings when he hears the sound of Diana’s boots hitting the fire escape. They’re heavier than usual, as if she flew straight back without stopping, and Steve races to the window.

Diana blinks up at him, her eyes a puffy red. “Steve,” she whispers.

“ _Diana_ ,” he says, and he’s never felt so relieved in his life. “God, shit—you okay? Claire!”

“I’m here, I’m here,” says Claire, and together the two of them help Diana through the window. It’s no easy task, with her armor and weapons she’s not exactly the _lightest_ person in the world, but they manage it. “Jesus Christ, where have you _been_?”

“Italy,” Diana manages, her voice raw. Steve’s heart briefly stutters in his chest. It’s the worst sound in the world, that small, raw voice, like someone had taken Diana’s heart and crushed it in front of her. “We’re all right, I’m all right—”

“What happened?” Steve asks.

Diana draws in a shuddering breath as they hold her upright, Claire on one side, Steve on the other. Like she’s fought for too damn long. “What do you know about the Black Mercy?” she asks, instead.

“The what, what?” says Claire.

Steve racks his scattershot memory, comes up with, “There was a project LexCorp shelved under the name, something to do with—hallucinogenic plants? I don’t know.” Then it hits, and he says, “Diana? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” says Diana. “Because you’re _real._ ” She smiles at him as the two of them set her down on the couch. “But—first, can I—”

Steve goes first, scooting closer to wrap her up in his arms. She makes a soft noise, and hugs him back.

Claire says, “So is anyone going to be sleeping tonight, or should I start making an extra pot of coffee?”

“I’ll do it,” says Steve.

“No need, I know where the sugar is,” says Claire, getting up and leaving them alone in the living room in the meantime.

Steve holds on to Diana. Or—Diana holds on to him, really, as if she’s scared that he’ll slip through her fingers again.

It feels like an eternity, before Steve pulls away. In truth it’s maybe just two or three minutes, and he lets his hand drop to Diana’s hand, brushing a thumb lightly over her knuckles. “Can I ask what happened?” he says.

Diana runs a hand through her hair, takes her diadem off her forehead and places it, reverently, on the coffee table. She says, quiet, “I dreamed that all my dead were alive again, and that war had become a thing of the past. I dreamed that what had happened to you had never been. I dreamed that everything was _perfect_ , and for a time I believed it to be true.”

He smooths a strand of dark hair away from her forehead, tucks it behind her ear.

“Then I realized it was a lie,” she sighs. “And everything fell apart. I watched you—”

She stops, breathes out, and shifts her hand so her thumb brushes over his wrist, seeking his pulse.

“I haven’t had the best time, these past few days,” she says, instead.

Steve lifts up one hand to rest against the back of her neck, and inches closer once more so his forehead falls against hers. “I’m right here,” he says. “If you want, I can tell you that with the lasso on.”

“You don’t need to,” says Diana, her other hand reaching up to cup his cheek. He leans, instinctively, into the touch. “I trust you. I always have.”

He wants to tell her that’s a terrible idea. He’s shot at her before, he’s tried to kill her and her friends, and his head is still a scrambled mess from a century’s worth of brainwashing and torture. He’s the last person anyone should trust with anything.

But she brushes her fingers over his jaw, so tender and careful, as if handling something precious. As if she’s worried she might break him, and he thinks of her in the midst of a battlefield, deflecting bullets and mortar shells and tearing through brick walls as if they were paper.

It takes his breath away, how she loves him. It takes his breath away, how he loves her.

He says, “We have time now.”

Her head tilts up.

They close the space between them.

\--

(An interlude, a hundred years ago:

Sunlight streams in through the windows, bathing everything in a soft yellow glow. Diana wakes first, Steve not long after, and the two of them get dressed in a companionable silence after spending a few more minutes kissing in bed.

“Hey,” says Steve, as Diana’s buckling her greaves on.

“Hey,” says Diana, with a smile, tilting her head up for a kiss.

“I think I’d like to find out,” he says. “What people do when there’s no war to fight.” He ducks his head, suddenly shy, and says, “With you. If you want to.”

“Of course I want to,” says Diana. “I want breakfasts and newspapers with you. And—ice cream as well, I think.”

“Yeah?” says Steve. “As it happens I know a pretty good place to go for ice cream. We should go there.” He’s going about this all backwards, he thinks—usually, the order goes like this: _date, fall in love, sleep with each other._ Then again, they’re in the middle of a war, the usual order of things does not exactly apply here.

Diana grins, says, “I would _love_ to go.” Then she sobers, and says, “But first we have to go to a gala and end this war.”

He wishes it were that easy. He wishes this war could end with a simple thrust of her sword, but he has been in this war too long to know that things are not so clear-cut as that. But—

He can’t tell her that, can he. There’s an idealism in her that’s somehow survived even No Man’s Land, a hope that there is good within everyone, even the worst of men. He swallows the lump in his throat, and says, “I still don’t know about the gala.”

“I’ve gotten very good at swaying under your tutelage,” says Diana, as the two of them walk out the door and leave behind the plans made for a future that won’t ever be.)

\--

They stay up most of the night, helping Claire with her studies. Mostly, this consists of Diana sipping coffee while Steve quizzes Claire on medical cases and diseases and ethics.

Eventually Claire shoos them off the couch, and they retreat to the bedroom. Diana’s too exhausted to do much of anything, and Steve’s not exactly in the best shape to even entertain the idea, but he kisses her temple before she falls asleep, then closes his eyes.

They’re wrapped up around each other the next day. Steve’s pressed up along Diana back, snoring peacefully into her neck, and Diana’s drooling a little into her pillow. Sunlight bathes their bedroom in a golden glow, and when Steve opens his eyes, he half-thinks they’re back in Veld, somehow.

Then someone knocks on the door, and Claire calls, “There’s coffee in the kitchen, thanks for letting me stay, Diana!”

Steve presses a kiss to Diana’s hairline. She shifts in his arms, and pulls the rest of the blanket away from him.

“Feel like a cup of coffee?” he murmurs.

Diana’s eyes slowly open, and she smiles. “Of course,” she says.

**Author's Note:**

> almost all the books mentioned are real, save for the one Bodhi talks about with WWI soldiers' anecdotes. there is in fact a huge market for "who shot Kennedy and why?" theories, apparently.
> 
> James is played by Anthony Ramos in my head, while Amélie from Decorative Arts looks a bit like Sofia Boutella with some aesthetic notes borrowed from Overwatch's Amélie Lacroix.


End file.
